Astronomy
by RavenclawGenius
Summary: HGCW: Hermione's taken to late night wanderings, and Charlie wants to know why. Smut.


Hermione quietly padded her way down the familiar hallways and stairs of the Weasley household, trembling from her nightmares, and her stomach burning obscenely. It wasn't uncommon – not since Dolohov's curse in her fifth year. The damn scar was nearly four years old, now.

Sighing, she crept outside and wandered to the edge of the Weasley property, where a thin patch of woods rested. She pressed her back against the trunk of a large tree and sunk down it.

There really wasn't a purpose to her excursions into the night. She simply didn't enjoy dwelling on her nightmares, and the moon had always been a small source of peace and comfort for her, even when she had been merely a small child. Then, it had always been because her father would take her out to watch the stars. He would tell her about the constellations, and always explained the stories behind each one. It had been a small thing, but an enjoyable one.

She looked up and tried to imagine real people, beyond the stars – her parents, perhaps, watching over her – but she couldn't do it.

Not because she hadn't been raised to believe in religion, but because she did not want to imagine herself up there, never dying, cursed forever to live with the nightmares and terrors that she daily endured. It was not a promising thought.

"You baffle me, Hermione Granger."

Startled and caught off guard, Hermione's head shot up to eye the second eldest of the Weasley children – Charlie. Charlie, the one whom she had secretly admired and, she might admit, lusted after for nearly two years now.

"Why is that?" She asked.

He shrugged, and seated himself in the grass in front of her. "I've never seen a human creature quite so unaware of the things she deserves, and the way she deserves to be treated."

Confused, she asked, "Pardon?"

Charlie glanced up at the stars for a moment, as well, then turned back to face her. "Harry and Ron have quite obviously adapted to the life of the heroes," he said quietly, studying her darkened, haunted eyes. "You, however…"

He didn't need to finish. She didn't need to be told that she'd been a mess – that she'd soiled the parties and galas with her unenthused behavior. "I'm sorry," she ducked her head. "I haven't intentionally attempted to ruin anyone's excitement."

"I think you misunderstand, Hermione," Charlie intoned gently, reaching forward to tilt her chin back upwards. Her blood heated, and she could feel her body tremble slightly. "I merely meant that I'd like to understand the way that you think. I want to know what it is, exactly, that keeps you from sleeping during the night. I want to know what brings you _here_ every other night."

Shifting away from the tree, because the bark was digging into her back, Hermione muttered, "I won't burden you with that, Charlie."

"It isn't a burden," he insisted. "I _want_ to know."

"No," she said, sharply this time. She closed her eyes as he flinched away, and reached a hand out to touch his forearm. "The final battle was infinitely easier than we imagined it to be, and I've no right to wallow."

"Easier than we expected, perhaps," Charlie soothed, eyeing her small fingers on his forearm with affection and tenderness, "but not for you."

She shrugged, "It was a risk, Charlie."

"One that shouldn't have been taken," he mumbled.

"One that _everyone_ elected to take," she shot back stubbornly.

"But your parents are muggles," he said, searching her face as it twisted in pain. "They had no way to defend themselves, and you did the best that you could to protect them. You sent them to another country. You gave them a clean slate, Hermione, and the highest sort of protection that you could manage without giving off a signal as to where they were. You cannot fault yourself for the loss; you did the best that you could – which was still above and beyond what would be expected from someone of your age."

"My best wasn't good enough," Hermione snarled. She took a deep breath, and then chuckled humorlessly. "You know, I'm rather tired and rather disgusted by everyone's incessant need to praise my efforts for 'someone of my age'. Treat me as if I'm still a child, if it suits you, or treat me as an adult with the capacity and intelligence of one – but I'm sick of the ambiguity."

"You certainly are a unique witch," Charlie offered a small smile.

Hermione's stomach performed a small acrobatics routine, she was sure.

"I can assure you, Hermione," he whispered huskily, finally reaching out to lift her hand from his arm, "that I unquestionably do _not_ see you as a child."

She tried to swallow. The deepness of his voice, the low timbre of it shook through her and settled in her core. She'd been about to say something – probably to tell him to go back to bed before she lost any semblance of control that she had left – but he lifted her hand to his mouth and slowly – without ever once taking his sharp, clear blue eyes away from hers – kissed the pad of each finger.

She closed her eyes, unable to deny that she wanted the contact, but also incapable of vocalizing that she wanted more. He did it for her.

"You're a very unique witch, indeed," he murmured softly against the palm of her hand. "One that I find myself aching terribly for."

She loved the way that he spoke. Not just his voice, but his manners, and the old-fashioned way that he talked – a skill that he and Bill had no doubt learned from their father, before Percy warped them into pomposity; skill which Fred and George chose to entirely neglect. Ron had never been given the chance, after the failure of the others.

But, oh God, that was such an elegant way of saying that he wanted her.

His lips moved to a pulse point on her wrist, apparently needing no encouragement from her end, provided that she wasn't _dis_couraging the action.

His lips felt like fire against her skin – or perhaps her skin was the flame, and his lips the fuel. She'd never had a man take more than a moment or two in undressing her. If she had been wanted, then it had been a quick affair. There was very little foreplay involved, let alone romance.

She felt – and greatly hoped – that this would not be the case with Charlie.

"Lay back, love," he whispered softly, nearly stopping her heart in the process.

Hermione adhered to his request, unsure what she should be doing. He was kissing his way up her arm, and brushing his lips across her bare shoulder, while she pondered how to go about a slow, meaningful sexual encounter, opposed to the quick, emotionless ones that granted her very little pleasure.

His lips – his heavenly, yet sinful lips – touched her ear, and he spoke in one of the most erotic voices that she had ever heard, or ever hoped to hear. "I want to make love to you," he murmured. "I want to pleasure you. May I ask for your consent?"

Hermione whimpered. She nearly didn't know what he was asking, so caught up was she on the romance in his words, and the prospects of him bringing her pleasure. Consent? He wanted – he thought he had to _ask_ for her consent?

"Yes," she breathed, unable to articulate anything requiring more than one syllable.

His hands moved down her neck tauntingly, and inched downward to skim her breasts just barely. She gasped. She'd never been so turned on. He was playing her body like an antique piano – carefully, gently, masterfully – and with the same fragility.

"Charlie," she murmured as his tongue drew soft patterns against her neck, "I want to feel you."

His hands – those rough hands – took her softer, smaller ones and moved them to the hemline of his baggy nightshirt. "If you wish to feel me," he mumbled, "you needn't ask my permission."

_God_ that voice.

The moment her hands touched his skin, he hissed. She rapidly pulled her fingers away, fearing that she'd hurt him.

"I've been without a woman's touch for several months, my love. I am not in pain, but in the midst of bliss."

Motivated and intrinsically pleased by his recent lack of women, she moved her hands back to his stomach. His abs were hard, and his muscles shuddered under her hands. Suddenly feeling a desperate desire to see him – his rough, scarred, masculine body – she took the bottom of the shirt and tugged it over his head.

He nipped her neck roughly, and she moaned, hands flying to his long, red hair. His tongue quickly soothed the small wound, and he repeated the motions several times before his hands, which had previously been resting around her hips, snuck down her thighs and teasingly drove her nightgown upward, skimming his fingers and palms over the sides of her stomach, breasts, and shoulders as he slid the thin material from her body.

One hand cupped the back of her neck as his mouth crept up the line of her jaw, and finally, _finally_ pressed against her lips.

A magical tension shrouded the air as his mouth caressed hers, she arching into him, pleading, begging, and her tongue brushing his lips. She'd never been kissed – not like this, not this intimately. She'd never before felt so complete, so understood.

"Charlie," she moaned against him, her nails creating dents in his shoulders as her hips rolled toward his still-clothed ones. Her body heated as his spare hand strolled toward her breast and – dear, merciful Merlin – so did his mouth, enveloping her nipple and eliciting a long, low moan.

A hand was suddenly on her thigh, and slithered upward until finally a deft digit slid into her, soon joined by another.

"_Oh,_" she struggled, "_yes._ _Yes._"

She tried to create a rhythm against his hand – a quick rhythm which he did not approve of. "Oh no, my love. You certainly have not been treated as you deserve – neither in your life nor in your bed."

She wondered what that meant until – _oh._ Her eyes rolled back as his fingers rocked into her leisurely, taking his time and building her up. Her hips arched into his, and she let out a small gasp every time his fingers pushed deeper inside of her. "Oh my God," she breathed, an orgasm approaching hard and fast – and from such slow movements!

And Charlie carefully withdrew his fingers from her heat. She wanted to hex him, until she saw him untying the drawstring on his pajama pants and sliding them away from his hips.

He was big – and he looked as though he'd hardly fit, but she was sure – oh, _so_ sure – that the feel of him would be phenomenal.

He didn't enter her immediately; his lips – his hot, ready lips – touched hers, whispered against them, taunting her, and then he slowly slid into her. She immediately accepted his fullness, enveloping her walls around him as a moan – this one loud and almost mistakable for a scream – tumbled from her throat.

"You feel so good," she said, whimpering, wrapping her legs around his hips.

"As do you," he murmured against her ear, pulling away from her heat and driving back into her at that same, dauntingly slow speed – a speed which Hermione was quickly discovering that she enjoyed immensely.

His hips met hers, thrust for agonizing thrust. Each time he reached a new depth within her, each time drawing out a new spectrum of colors and sounds that she'd never seen or heard before – the sounds emitting from either her mouth or his, but at this point it was far too difficult to discern them.

"Come," Charlie bit her ear lightly. "Now."

She was helpless, and had no choice but to obey as he entered again, her walls clenching him, pulsing against him as her heart thudded erotically and she breathed heavily. He followed her a moment later, and withdrew, wordlessly moving to lie beside her, and tugging her head to his chest.

She couldn't speak. She'd dealt with men after quick, meaningless encounters, but never after making love. She didn't want to soil the moment – not this one.

Hermione glanced up at the stars once more.

Heaven, hell – she didn't greatly care, so long as Charlie Weasley was present wherever she ended up.


End file.
